


Healing

by Natasha_Barton



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clintasha - Freeform, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, I just really love them okay?, I wrote this months ago and am finally posting it, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Fanart, Past Abuse, Past Violence, Scars, Short One Shot, affectionate assassins, my life is a mess, otp: a couple of master assassins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha_Barton/pseuds/Natasha_Barton
Summary: Clint and Natasha help each other heal from past trauma
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	Healing

**Author's Note:**

> This one shot was partially inspired by [this](https://when-it-rains-it-snows.tumblr.com/post/120383937183/intosnarkness-is-that-special-kind-of) Clint fanart!

Clint trailed his fingertips across Natasha’s bare skin, pausing every so often to trace scar tissue of varying shades; pale flesh tones and pink hues, the occasional red and purple, still angry from a recent injury. He’d spent the better part of a decade learning the stories behind them, one by one, each explanation more detailed and intimate than the last. Although he’d never admit it to her, his favorite was the roughly round patch on her left shoulder, residual damage caused by a Soviet slug. He would’ve laughed about Bucky being the one to shoot her if he wasn’t so well acquainted with the horrors of being under someone else’s control.

No, the reason he loved that particular scar so much had nothing to do with who shot her. It was the way in which she described that moment, how her voice softened when she talked about all the innocent civilians who found themselves in the middle of a feud that spanned more than half a century, all those people she tried so desperately to save. This was the story that Clint would proudly tell to anyone who would listen, although his confidentiality agreements made sharing any actual details of the case damn near impossible. But there were far too many people that looked at Natasha as a murderer, a villain, someone to fear. Putting herself in danger, day after day, literally running through a sniper’s crosshairs to save as many people as she could; how could that be anything short of heroic?

Clint had first started tracing her scars after the Battle of New York, an uncertain stretch of time when neither was sure they’d make it out alive. He’d waited until she fell asleep, one arm curled under her pillow, the other lightly resting next to her face. They’d spent the night together plenty of times, and the all-consuming fear of loss threw fuel on the fire, resulting in several days where they couldn’t stand the thought of being apart. He knew his touch woke her, but she never protested, never asked him to stop.

A few weeks later, they got drunk after a mission, downing shots of vodka, tequila, whiskey, anything they had on hand. Clint tugged at his bandages, thick gauze faintly stained red from a new injury, his side slashed open by a foreign blade. Nat reached out to smooth the bandage for him, to unroll the section digging into his back, her hands lingering longer than usual.

“Think it’ll scar?” She smiled, curious, hopeful. She’d stitched it herself, the tight knots evenly spaced, parallel to his ribs.

“Just another to add to my collection.” He tried to laugh, but the movement pulled at his stitches, so he closed his eyes and focused on controlling his breathing. When he’d settled the flare of pain, he realized she was still touching his back.

“Another to learn,” she whispered.

It became their routine of sorts; every night they got to spend together, they’d study each other’s scars, tracking the healing process, learning the stories. Most of Clint’s had happened while he was with Nat, except for the oldest few, the ones he took years to open up about. She never interrupted as he shared the darkest moments of his childhood, many aspects of which she could relate to, although her abusers weren’t family.

Slowly, this exchange evolved beyond study and storytelling. They’d start with the injuries that carried the most painful memories and place soft kisses along the scar tissue, hoping to replace the hurt with gentle love, the fear with peaceful trust. Such intense trauma could never be diminished overnight—as they were both acutely aware—but they were willing to try, eager to gradually chip away at the burdens they’d chained to their souls.


End file.
